


Sherlock Holmes Discovers the Meaning of Christmas

by rude_not_ginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:20:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2877341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes.  Irene Adler.  A Christmas Adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes Discovers the Meaning of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> For taco_overlord, for Christmas. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal. <3

“Don’t.”

Sherlock’s hands stopped over the package. Even in the darkness of the warehouse, even with only the slimmest of moonlight trickling in from the broken windows, he could see the panic on the Woman’s face from across the table at him.

“You know this is right,” he said.

“No,” she said.

No?

But, of course, she had reasons to doubt. It was his folly that ended them here, in a warehouse in Brittany, when they had begun their liaison in Paris, sipping wine in front of the Louvre on Christmas Eve. He, in sunglasses and his coat, she in a blonde wig and a green velvet dress.

Hidden from the world but not truly hiding from each other, of course.

“Do you know he’s back?” he had asked her.

“The whole planet knows he’s back,” she had replied. “I can only hope you don’t expect me to investigate with you, Mr. Holmes.”

Although the idea had occurred to him, particularly with John’s newfound life and wife and child on the way, he would never think to ask her. Particularly not with those words coming out of her mouth. No, that would be, well, embarrassing. And there were few people on the planet that Sherlock cared about being embarrassed in front of. The Woman, Irene Adler, was one of them.

The text arrived two hours later, while they were going up an elevator to a hotel room. Her wig had been shed, his shirt was half undone, and her dress was askew. This was not a side of themselves they showed the world, and certainly not one they allowed to be interrupted. Not lightly, at least.

_The two of you are involved in this. Come play. x._

A set of coordinates had been attached.

He wasn’t certain what made him pause in his ministrations to look at his mobile, but he did, and he was suddenly absorbed with this, this strange number without an origin, that appeared to know of both himself and the Woman’s existence here in France.

“The coordinates are for Rennes.”

“Never heard of it,” the Woman replied, smoothing down her dress. She affected a cool, unflappable tone, but he could tell she was irritated by the interruption.

“Nor should you. It’s a small, unexceptional city north of here.”

“And you’ll be leaving.”

“We should,” he replied, looking over to her. “It’s for both of us.”

She picked the wig up from the floor of the lift. “I don’t come when I’m called, Mr. Holmes. You, of all people, should know that.”

It was three hours later that they were leaving Rennes, following another set of coordinates, another text. The Woman’s lip was split, and his cheek had a bruise blossoming across it. Her dress was torn, his shirt was stained---though not his blood, he was pleased to say.

“I preferred the idea of simply dinner,” she said.

“Your pupils are dilated, Woman,” he replied, switching gears to a higher setting as he sped up the car. “Although you are the one who knows far better what people _like_ , I would say this is something that certainly excites you.”

She let out a huff of air through her nose, and looked back over her shoulder. The wind whisked her hair, wildly pulled from its tight, intricate bun, around her face like a halo in the setting sun. It was not an unsensual image to Sherlock.

There was another sound of gunfire behind them, though, so he couldn’t focus too much on the Woman beside him, and he had to keep an eye on the car itself, on keeping it moving forward, on keeping it on the road. One of the bullets hit the back light, and he felt the car shudder with the impact.

He reached out to push her out of the way.

“Keep down!” he snapped.

The package was found another two hours later in the hands of a corpse. A package wrapped in bright green and red, with a lovely silver bow. Another note, another text message. The corpse was left with a note for them, written in beautiful calligraphy.

_Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, x._ the note read. It was found in truck number 13, on road 13 off of the highway they had used to escape the gunmen.

“A kiss and a full stop,” Sherlock had said, taking the package. “I know that sign.”

“Jim Moriarty?” the Woman had replied.

“Alive with all of his old tricks.”

Another text message buzzed in Sherlock’s phone. All of Jim’s old tricks indeed, as another set of coordinates was there, as well as a note. Sherlock was not only holding a package, he was holding explosives. Semtex, enough to blow up the whole truck stop. Discarding it would mean it would be detonated immediately.

“No.”

The _No_ came later, or, more appropriately, came _now_ , at this moment. This moment in Brittany, in a small warehouse long after the sun had set. The gunmen were gone, the package was theirs, and they had found scraps of clues throughout the warehouse to put together the puzzle of how to open the package and reveal what was inside without killing themselves.

_The number was told to you from the moment you held the package. Digits two._

“Thirteen,” Sherlock had said. “Truck thirteen, stop thirteen. Obvious.”

He unwrapped the gift, and a package of Semtex waited, with a keycode pad on top. His fingers hovered over the numbers as she spoke.

“Don’t,” she said.

Even in the darkness of the warehouse, even with only the slimmest of moonlight glimmering off the strange Christmas package they’d been delivered, he could see the panic on her face. The package sat between them on the rusted, lone table.

Or was it panic on her face? No, no, it was more _determination_. The Woman had been following in this adventure. She’d thrown her share of hits, she’d chased her share of clues, but in general she sat in the passenger seat. She wasn’t doing that this time. She reached out her hand.

“No,” she said. “It’s too obvious. Jim would never make it that obvious. He would never be that _kind_. We both knew him far too well to think that.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Wouldn’t he? Her hand hovered over his, and he paused. He could fight her on this one. Thirteen seemed obvious, it seemed right. But the Woman seemed sure. Which did he trust more? His own certainty, or her intellect?

He moved his hand back. Allowed her access.  
She pressed a long, red fingernail against the keypad. 1. 0.

X. Roman numeral for 10.

The keypad clicked. The Semtex hissed.

The bomb deactivated. It opened to reveal a phone. With what information hidden on it? What keycode would open it? Another Christmas mystery, it appeared.

Sherlock looked from it up to the Woman.

The Woman’s lips curled into a triumphant smile. “All these notes, sealed with a kiss, Mr. Holmes? For me? That’s not the Jim Moriarty _I_ know.”

He felt his cheeks flush, and was grateful for the darkness. “Do you remember what you said to me back in Baker Street after my deduction?”

“You’d have me on this desk right now?” she replied, and her smirk was a slice of red in the moonlight as well.

He didn’t reply, but his silence was clearly consent. She, as he had said some hours earlier, _liked_ adventure. He _liked_ this. This show of power, of intellect. Of what the Woman had that no other person on the planet did: A mind equal to Sherlock’s.

“ _I_ don’t beg for mercy, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“Twice, Woman. Twice.”


End file.
